


Fate Don't Take 'No' For An Answer

by DixieDale



Category: The Persuaders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27324862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: Sequel to 'And Should The Seed Become A Rose'.The course of true love rarely runs smooth, especially with two such unique individuals as Brett Sinclair and Danny Wilde.  In this case, between sausages sizzling in the pan, an unwanted extra helping of cereal, an appearance by Elvis and the original Red Hot Mama - the incomparable Sophie Tucker - plus reoccuring visits by an overweight canary, could Danny and Brett's struggle against their joined Fate GET any stranger?  Probably not, but they'd better not count on a win against her this time.  After all, Fate is persistent as hell, and she doesn't take 'no' for an answer!
Kudos: 4





	Fate Don't Take 'No' For An Answer

Brett's exhaustion, the after-effect of his traumatic, if only vaguely remembered experience with the Countess, dragged on for awhile, then gradually faded. The bite marks, the bruises, faded as well, but the living arrangement undertaken by necessity after that experience, the routine they'd fallen into, lingered on.

Days turned into weeks, with Danny still occupying the guest room of Brett's flat, and one morning Danny awoke to look at the calendar and realize just how long it HAD been. Somehow November had disappeared, right along with December, and a cold mid-January mixture of sleet and rain was now pelting the window glass. Why, HOW had he not noticed the passing of the days? Why was he still there and not back at his very expensive room at the luxury hotel along with the rest of his belongings? A room he was still paying big bucks for, by the way. Or in Paris, like he'd intended to be by this time? Or maybe even New York, visiting his Aunt Sophie for a few days like he did most every January?

It was a little embarrassing, in fact, when he came to think about it, though he'd not noticed that either, not til now. Brett was doing fine now, had been for quite some time, yet they'd just carried on like this was the normal way things should be. They spent most of their time together, then retired to their separate bedrooms for the night, only to meet again in the kitchen the next morning over breakfast, which typically Danny prepared. 

A steady, solid routine had emerged, unbroken even by Christmas or Boxing Day. Danny vaguely remembered ordering in Chinese for the first, or maybe it was Thai, and Italian for the second, but there had been nothing in the way of a celebration, or gifts, or really anything that would have marked those days different than any other of the days he'd spent here, other than watching Brett reading over the various cards he had received in the mail. Hell, he didn't even remember what they'd done on Thanksgiving, and that was usually one of his favorite days. Somehow even that day - one known, at least to him if not Brett, for ladling in as many calories as possible, had passed unnoticed, unremarked as they passed through their daily routine.

A steady, solid routine - they rose, breakfasted together, each attended to business matters via telephone or correspondence, read the papers, listened to the news. A shared luncheon, then Danny urging Brett to his bedroom to nap, Brett protesting, in the end both of them napping for part of the afternoon, though never together, unless they fell asleep in the chairs in the living room. Repeat for dinner, perhaps some cards, a drink or two, conversation, music or reading, a little more conversation, then off to bed, each to their own room.

It was a quiet, oddly satisfying existence in many ways, if quite unlike either man, or at least unlike the face they typically showed to the world. Satisfying in many ways, if perhaps not all.

In fact, much to his surprise, all that would have been fine with Danny, that steady, solid routine, except . . . Well, it wasn't - HE wasn't. He wanted - more. He wanted - less. Hell, he didn't even know WHAT he wanted anymore, but this sure wasn't it! Close, maybe. Real close, even, but not close enough to be RIGHT! Just close enough to somehow make him itch, like a shirt of just the right color and style and fit, except with a collar not set exactly right. Something so pleasing in so many ways, yet that slight imperfection becoming more irritating than would normally have been the case just by manner of contrast.

It had been a pleasant enough time, he admitted that, if slightly superficial, stilted in nature. They'd kept the conversation not light necessarily, but careful - discussing, sometimes arguing about politics, literature, horse racing, fashion, and a lot else, but avoiding anything of too personal a nature. They certainly avoided discussing the Countess, past the bare essentials, and although Danny tried to suggest (strongly and repeatedly) that they'd both be better off forgetting about the Judge and his 'fight for Justice', he was oddly reluctant to get into specifics, and Brett was equally reluctant to fully grasp what Danny was trying to say.

In fact, in many ways they were both on their best behavior, 'company' behavior they usually reserved for someone of a much more superficial connection, and that included pretty much everyone else in their sphere. Not cold, their behavior towards each other - no, not that, just not their usual affectionally-rude interaction. 

Brett now politely thanked Danny when the circumstances called for such, rarely complained about Danny's attire or his crassness or his lack of knowledge on all the subjects Brett had frequently professed to be essential to a gentleman's portfolio. 

Danny, for his part, kept the teasing to a minimum, didn't bait Sinclair trying to get a reaction; didn't try to jolly the Brit out of his sometimes-glum moods, tried not to subject the other man to his own less-than-sparkling intervals of temperament, either.

Danny hadn't even flirted with Brett since all this began, much less made any serious approach at anything more. 

All in all, when it came right down to it, it was like two other people were occupying that flat, pleasant enough sorts, just not Brett Sinclair, not Danny Wilde. Just as if they were two people who were not very well acquainted, metaphorically tip-toeing around each other. It just wasn't normal! 

{"It's like we had personality transplants or something! And I don't know that I much like either of the ones we ended up with, not enough to spend a lot of time with them up close and personal; I was pretty happy with who we were before!"}

In fact, the entire situation was topsy-turvey, and it seemed to Danny, likely to stay that way. It was hardly ideal, neither one thing nor the other, nor anything recognizeable in between. 

Maybe if they stepped back, back into their prior rolls, they could take a fresh look, maybe take another stab at - well, SOMETHING!

He resolved to tell Brett over breakfast that it was time he got back to his old routine. Well, there were business affairs he'd neglected, that much was true. He could handle a lot from here and had, by phone or letter or by a quick dash back to the hotel with its equipment room at his disposal, but some things just needed a hands-on approach if they were to succeed, some requiring a plane ride or something similar. 

Yeah, he'd explain that to Brett, pack his suitcase, and head back to his own life. It was best that way, anyhow, if that hard reluctance that gripped him at the notion of leaving was any indication. That was his early-warning system that he was about to get stuck, something he'd developed as a kid struggling to make it out of New York City and go find whatever else was out there. He paid close attention when that warning bell rang, and it had served him well over the years. 

Well, he'd never intended to get stuck anywhere long term, with anyone, for any reason, and he had the uneasy feeling that was what was happening, right along with that personality transplant. He was turning into someone else, living with someone who was doing that very same thing; if they weren't careful, they'd end up tottering old men, living together for the greater part of their lives, but never really knowing or understanding, maybe even liking the other. He thought he'd seen a stage play with that theme once; he hadn't much liked it then, when he'd been in the audience, figured he wouldn't like it any more playing a lead role.

He'd slid into a role HERE that he wasn't cut out for - part cook and bottle washer, part nursemaid, part companion, part . . . . 

He wasn't sure what that other part was. Not lover. He'd been careful there, Brett equally careful, nothing happening between them since that night in the hotel. They'd been so damned careful, so damned intent on not acknowledging it - whatever 'it' was. 

Whatever - all he knew was that damned 'it' was like a five hundred pound canary swinging from the overhead light fixture, shrieking its head off, trying to get a message through, and the both of them were fervently humming - la-la-la-la-la! - while simultaneously holding their hands over their ears, having a loud conversation about something, ANYTHING, other than that damned canary!

It was unfortunate, of course, that the same morning Danny made that firm resolution to leave was the same morning Brett woke up to realize how truly comfortable {"well, perhaps not totally comfortable, but certainly promising!"} the situation was, had determined to suggest to his unexpected roommate that he switch the rest of his belongings from the hotel into the guest room. 

{"Perhaps we will start to become more like ourselves then. I am starting to miss the snarky comments, the deliberate crassness Daniel brings to a conversation. There is a great deal I am starting to miss, and perhaps regularizing the situation somewhat might bring things more back to the usual. Yes, I could tolerate having him around for a bit longer."}

Just as a convenience, of course, to both of them, he assured himself. He knew Daniel would travel a great deal with his business ventures, and he seemed to remember something about an upcoming visit to that notorious Aunt Sophie, but for at least awhile, the American seemed content to stay in London. And even if he did travel, well, that guest room was a secure place for any belongings Daniel did not need on his journey. There really was no reason to continue to maintain separate lodgings, not immediately, was there? 

Surely, once that was settled, they would ease away from the overly-cautious dance they seemed to be engaging in, get back to their more usual sparring and teasing interaction. 

Of course, he had no intention of admitting to that annoying man that he had missed all of that, certainly not that he had even come to miss the foolish and embarrassing flirting Daniel had engaged in previously. Certainly wouldn't mention that he had even been finding himself thinking wistfully about that night in that dreary little hotel in the middle of nowhere. 

"Daniel, it has occurred to me . . . 

"Hey, Your Lordship, I been thinking . . ." Danny started.

They both stopped when they realized the other had been speaking the same time, then started again. This time they each got out enough the other got the message.

(Overhead a huge canary, invisible to their eyes, grumbled in annoyance. Did they honestly think she had nothing ELSE to do with her time than to watch them go out of their way to interfere with her plans? Really!!!)

They ended up finishing their breakfast in silence, then Danny headed to his room to pack his belongings, while Brett aimless flipped through his desk calendar, wondering why nothing entered there seemed to appeal in the slightest, no more than did the names in that personal directory of his.

They'd shared a last drink, fumbling for something to say, talking of inconsequentials, never of what they wanted to say, and parted with a mutual smile that faded as soon as that door to the flat closed.

The flat seemed so empty, the walls actually echoing Brett's heartbeat, or so it seemed. Nonsense, of course! He was now resolved that he was actually delighted to regain his privacy; why, while Daniel had been here, he'd been unable to have anyone over, had felt reluctant to even go out and find any compatible companionship, and somehow the idea of double-dating had seemed, well, kinky and off-putting. No, now he could get back to his own life, his own friends. 

Resolutely he headed toward the desk and his leather-bound address book. Picking up the telephone, he started dialing. 

"Hello, Jennifer. It's Brett Sinclair. I was wondering if . . .

The drive back to the hotel took all his control. Every stop light seemed to be flashing the message 'turn around, you idiot, you're going in the wrong direction!' 

Finally, two blocks from the hotel, he snarled in frustration and swung over into a handy parking place. He'd been in that lounge before, many a time, usually made out pretty damned good there too. Yeah, he'd been on a tight leash the past few weeks, doing the nanny bit, but now it was time to roar! Walking in, he glanced around and a knowing, confident smile appeared. 

He approached a table in the corner, "Claudia, Louise. How great is this??! And who is your lovely friend? Let's have a drink, you can introduce me, and we can discuss - well, whatever." 

Yeah, Lord Brett Sinclair was on his own now; Danny Wilde was back in business!

Brett now realized he had missed Christmas and Boxing Day, not to mention New Year's Eve. He thought with considerable dismay of the scores of relatives and attractive ladies who must surely be wondering where on earth his manners were, and set out to assuage any ill feelings. A suave, if only slightly truthful, story about a severe case of the flu, an obstinate physician who failed to understand the social responsibilities of a man of Lord Sinclair's position, a lovely if not overly bright retinue of round-the-clock nurses - all that helped, as did the lavish gifts he had personally delivered along with his abject apologies.

February he spent assisting Cousin Kate with her latest murder mystery at his small Pendleton Manor property, where she had (with his permission, of course) sequestered herself to make the final revisions. 

Oh, upon his unannounced arrival she had claimed to be bobbing along quite well withOUT that assistance, really could do without his presence as well, but he was sure that wasn't the case. Kate might be a darling girl, but this illusion she persisted in clinging to, that her words were golden, could only carry her so far, never mind how many of those Best Sellers Lists she inexplicably managed to end up on. He was sure his help would be invaluable.

When, a week later, she'd discovered he had spent the prior evening editing her nearly finished manuscript, scratching out what he felt unnecessary or inappropriate, adding that certain something he felt was needed, (including an entire new Chapter Eleven), something that held more panache than her own words, little extra touches that were sure to make this one her best book by far, she had actually thrown an ash tray at his head! Well, he'd only been trying to help, give a much-needed touch of refinement to her little story. 

Finally she kicked him out (of one of his own estate houses, mind you!) with a brisk "go find Danny, Brett! He has more patience with your nonsense, can keep you in line far better than I, and he probably has nothing better to do. My publisher is going to throttle me if I don't deliver this manuscript on time!" 

Margot, Kate's best friend and lover, had thought the whole scene terribly funny, though Brett had not. 

Actually, Kate's tirade had rather hurt his feelings, as he really thought his suggestions added a great deal of elegance to that unnecessarily gritty story she was writing. 

Why she chose such low characters and coarse subjects to write about sometimes, he was sure he did NOT know! Surely changing the locale from that beer-drenched border tavern with its foul and dank sawdust-covered floor and disreputable clientele to a comfortable Lancastershire pub with its amiable if quirky villagers - the villain from that ill-kempt gambler with a serious drug habit to an equally villainous, but far more tidy individual employed in the local land office who preferred to indulge in nothing stronger than an under-the-counter tipple of smuggled whiskey - surely all of that was only an improvement! And there were any number of other areas he felt his advice would be quite useful. 

He resolved, after that last dust up, to head back to London and not give Cousin Kate the benefit of his advice ever again. That was unfortunate, was certainly her loss, but she had no one to blame but herself, of course.

March came, plodded methodically, grindingly slowly, on its way, when the middle of the month brought with it a summons from Judge Fulton. Brett sat in his chair for a long time, holding that telegram, remembering prior assignments he'd undertaken, usually with the assistance of Danny Wilde. 

He wondered if his sometimes-partner would be working on this one as well. The man had made no secret of his distaste for the idea of working for the Judge ever again, attributing that to some vague action with which the man had apparently offended the American. Still, perhaps Danny had had time to reconsider. 

In any case, it wasn't as if Brett had anything pressing on his schedule; he might as well go and see what the Judge had to say. Perhaps Danny might be there as well. Not that Brett really cared, of course, one way or another; it was just that it was a possibility.

For Danny, January had ended with a full week of squiring his buoyant Aunt Sophie around New York, everywhere from the ritziest of high-class joints to some dives he would have maybe avoided if not for Sophie insisting. 

Well, Aunt Sophie did have expansive tastes in a whole range of areas; the woman had always lived kinda wild and free. In fact, she was the one who'd taught Danny it didn't make any sense to just let that name 'Wilde' go to waste, that they must have ended up with it for some good reason. Of course, she'd changed that name a goodly number of times over the years, every time she got married, but always headed back to retrieve it, dust it off, and shrug her shoulders back into it like a well-worn but highly comfortable coat.

Danny might never want to live in New York City again, on a permanent basis anyhow, but he always enjoyed his time there now that he knew he could pick up and leave whenever he wanted. This time was no different. 

He spent the time well. He managed to pick up some interesting artwork by a new and unknown but quite promising artist, even getting a signed contract for 'first refusal' for any other stuff the guy turned out in exchange for a modest monthly stipend. Hey, what the hell, he had the dough and the poor guy needed to eat and keep a roof over his head if he was gonna be able to paint; the kid might be a budding artistic genius, and Danny was pretty sure he was, but even a genius can't survive on paint fumes alone.

He got to eat some good pastrami, along with some excellent knishes, and he made sure to work his way through a few helpings of illicit Cajun crawfish etouffee, along with a spicy sausage and okra gumbo that woulda been a natural down on Bourbon Street but was being served out of a dark alley in the Bronx. 

Old Rene, who made that etouffee along with the gumbo, didn't actually have a business license, or a restaurant, or anything like that, but with the right word, the right recommendation, and the right amount of dough, it was amazing what you could get handed out to you through that darkened window grill. The food was really great, though maybe the ambiance was a little lacking there in the alley; you ate standing up or leaning against the brick wall, but Rene kept the place swept out and clean, even had a couple of dogs that kept the rats away. Plus, Rene's friends made sure you didn't get mugged while you were eating and that your car got to keep its wheels. La Soliere, in the ritzy part of town, couldn't even guarantee THAT! 

Danny had offered to set the man up in a little place of his own, more than once, but Rene liked the setup he already had, and Danny didn't want to press. He knew about pride, and independence, and having the luxury of deciding he just didn't want to deal with people on any particular day. He respected Rene for being true to his own vision of what his life should be like. In fact, Danny was a little jealous, kinda wished he had as clear a vision of what HE wanted his OWN life to be like. He did, once upon a time, but now? Now it just wasn't as clear.

The highlight of his visit had been a swinging night in a loft somewhere in the Village. It had been a real gas, one he regretted not being able to tell Brett about when he finally woke up in his hotel the next afternoon. I mean, getting high with a bunch of kids, twenty-somethings, who, for some reason, thought that Danny was Elvis Presley? He could just see Brett's face trying to take all that in, though he wasn't sure his sometimes-partner would know who Elvis Presley WAS. Brett, for all his knowledge, his education, DID have some odd gaps tucked in there. Could tell you more than you wanted to know about Roman aqueducts, but zip about rock and roll! Go figure!

Those kids! Their conversation was as sadly lacking in coherence as their attire was brilliantly colorful, but they were eager, almost fawning in their admiration for him, and more importantly, had some seriously good shit they pressed him to share, and he found the whole situation amusing. Aunt Sophie had found it even more so. Well, Aunt Sophie did like her some good weed now and again, and that night was no exception.

(Actually, the high quality of that weed probably had a great deal to do with why those kids had mistaken him for Elvis in the first place, but other than being obliged to croon a few tunes, no harm done. He had to admit, his rendition of 'Love Me Tender' was one smooth ride.) 

The kids weren't all that sure who that Sophie dame was that Elvis was squiring around, but they settled down to listen, first with patient indulgence, then with great enthusiasm as Danny's aunt belted out a few verses of 'Some Of These Days' before going on to the rest of her considerable repertoire. {"I've seen her do Ethel Waters, Mae West, hell, even Bessie Smith and Ella and a lot of others, loads of times, but I gotta say, no one can do Sophie Tucker, the original Red Hot Mama, like my Aunt Sophie!"}

February found him in Rio for Carnivale, which he found not quite as amusing as usual, the ladies a little bland for his tastes, though the booze was good. Then it was on to Capetown, which was profitable in several respects.

The first part of March found him on a whirlwind tour of various business enterprises, including a tiny start-up winery where he surprised his resident manager doing some fancy finagling of the books and the inventory. That led to some swift retribution and an equally swift search for a new manager, someone with a little more loyalty and a little less entrepreneurial ambition. Luckily, Carlo, the son of the old vinter who was the genius behind that latest experiment with the grapes, was just such a person, and Danny left fully confident that his budding specialty wine business was in good hands.

And then the message came from Judge Fulton. A caper was afoot and he was summoning Danny Wilde into service, just like always. Danny snorted and threw the cable aside. Like hell! He wasn't walking back into that trap!

Later, having a drink, his eyes kept going to the trash can. Yeah, he was going to ignore that royal summons, but what about Brett? Was he being summoned too? 

Danny groaned. That was another thing they hadn't discussed, not in depth like it needed to be. Well, they couldn't, not adequately, not without also discussing the Countess, and they'd both avoided that like the subject was an oversized clump of poison ivy. Maybe radioactive poison ivy!

Now, he wondered, if the Judge crooked his finger, how would Brett respond? Oh, Danny had given Brett his opinion, but it had been coached in terms perhaps too vague for the man to really latch onto. Danny ruefully remembered they'd both downed a goodly amount of Scotch before that conversation even became possible, so he wasn't sure how successful he'd been in warning Brett about that devious old coot.

"Shit! He's gonna get himself iced, sure as anything, if he tries going it alone with whatever mess the Judge has going."

Now, that wasn't necessarily true, he had to admit. Brett was a savvy guy, had survived quite well for a long time before meeting Danny Wilde, but Danny had also seen the Brit get himself into any number of dire situations that had indeed taken Danny to pull him out of in more or less one piece.

He resolutely put the whole thing out of his mind, headed down to the lounge to meet up with Dolores Quintera, lovely prima ballerina from the finest ballet company in Rome, have a drink and dinner and then back to her room for a little dessert. 

Several hours later, in the dimness of the room, Danny eased his hand over to tilt the clock, check the time for maybe the tenth time since they'd turned the lights out. He didn't know what had him so jumpy, why he couldn't settle down, but it seemed like the hands on that clock weren't moving at all.

"Who is she?" Dolores asked softly. "This 'Brette'. It is an American name? A, how do you say, nick name, perhaps? I have not heard it before, I think."

"What? What are you talking about," he asked, startled, looking at the pretty brunette laying in the crook of his arm.

"Last night, you called me by her name, twice. Oh, it is not that I mind so much, Danny. We enjoy each other, yes, but I have no illusions that there is more. But, for you to call me by another's name, and at such a time, it does make me wonder, you see. Is she very beautiful?"

He was silent for a long minute, then threw back his head and groaned in utter frustration. "Ah, shit! Look, Dolores, I gotta get going. Got a plane I gotta catch, someone I gotta meet up with. Maybe next time . . ."

"Yes, Danny. Perhaps next time," and if there was a trace of sadness in her voice, it was only a small thing, for she had never thought to keep this man for herself. He simply wasn't the type to be tied down to any one person. {"Unless perhaps it might be this 'Brette'; there was such passion, such love, such longing in his voice when he said her name."}

Judge Fulton was just a bit disdainful when Danny showed up. After all, Lord Sinclair had managed to arrive on time, received his briefing in due course, departed to carry out the task demanded of him. 

The Judge had already decided not to speak of that impertinent outburst the American had indulged in back in London; that would be giving it far too much weight, too much importance. Obviously the man understood just how wrong he had been, otherwise he would not be standing here today, awaiting his instructions!

If Danny wanted to spit in the Judge's face, he made sure not to show it. That wasn't the way to find out what the hell the Judge had in mind, find out where Brett was, what was really going on. The Judge and his games came in far below all that in the level of importance. At least for now. Later, that might be a different story. First, he figured he needed to find Brett, pull him outta whatever soup he'd landed in. THEN they needed to have a long talk, maybe about a lot of things.

Now, Danny thought about that resolution and snorted. {"Yeah, we need to have a talk; hopefully we'll be able to get around to it before we're pushing up daisies!"}

It was a conversation long overdue, sure, but the place they now found themselves in, a grain silo with the interior ladder removed and that long metal chute slowly - oh so slowly - dropping more grain down to surround, eventually perhaps to cover their battered bodies, was hardly conducive to a conversation that seemed so irrelevant to their current situation. 

Actually, the place was far MORE conducive to saying your prayers, formulating your last words, and contemplating what you expected your eulogy would sound like. Brett had, in fact, given a detailed summary on the subject, even a short sample of what he anticipated would be included in HIS eulogy, in between each new onslaught from above. 

Danny quipped, carefully brushing millet out of his hair, "that's all well and good, sounds real impressive, ya know? But assuming your eulogy's going to be given by your best and most forgiving friend is kinda optimistic, don't you think? And not near as interesting as imagining what that eulogy is gonna be like if it ends up being given by the stream of enemies you and me've managed to pile up. I can think of more than a few who'd jump at the chance too, including that joker up above."

They spent some time imagining what various of those enemies might find to say, getting a certain amount of amusement from that sharing. Then, there was silence again, an oddly comfortable silence considering the situation they were in. Whatever awkwardness had existed between them before seemed to have disappeared once the adrenaline started pumping.

Then Danny snorted with amusement. "You ever read those wacked out theories about what we see around us, what we think this world really looks like, all we think we know is all screwed up? Like, we're maybe not who or what we think we are, even. You ever think maybe they're right? That maybe we're not even really people? Like, maybe we're really sausages?"

Brett turned his head to give his partner an incredulous look. He didn't THINK that blow to the head had been enough to cause any real damage, and their prior conversation had given no hint of such. But "sausages, Daniel?" he asked, the worry now increasingly evident in his voice.

"I mean, it kinda makes sense. Cause, if we're not sausages, how come we keep ending up in the frying pan?" Danny quipped, leaving his partner to give a groan at that lame attempt at humor.

Finally, after swimming to the surface after that last downpouring of millet, laying spread-eagled on the trembling surface that had threatened to swallow them, wondering if the next load would actually succeed, the subject they'd avoided for far too long also swam to the surface.

"We never did discuss the Countess. Well, yeah, we did, kinda, but I mean, I know there's a lot I left out, some of what happened, some of what she said that night. I figure it's the same with you, since you may be a gentleman and all, but you've never left that many blanks in a story before," Danny said, not looking at the other man, still watching that metal chute dangling from above. He really didn't like the way it was quivering, like someone was at the other end again, preparing to dump another load. 

"We haven't really discussed the Judge either," Sinclair admitted. "Perhaps that is part of our not discussing the Countess. Or is there another reason you are so adamant that any further projects from that source should be ignored, Daniel?"

"What, you don't think our current situation is reason enough, Your Dukeship? This hasn't wised you up to how he seems to make a habit of NOT giving us the full story before he sends us out on these little jobs?" Danny asked as the metal chute sent down another steady stream of grain, causing them to repeat their earlier careful technique of fighting to keep from being buried without their struggles causing them to sink further. Sinclair described it as a cross between managing to stay afloat in a pool of quicksand and shooting the rapids in a thundering river.

The only positive thing about that latest outpouring of golden millet was that, for the first time, the level inside the silo was now at a level where Danny had been able to arch his back and snag his waiting belt buckle on a hooked projection on the underside of that metal chute before it withdrew upwards to its stationary position. He didn't tug at it, left it strictly alone til the sense of anyone within hearing distance had died away. Then, with a combined effort that left them soaking wet and shaking, they drew that chute lower, and managed their escape.

Battling the bad guys, rescuing the terrified woman and child being held within the stronghold, that was old hat to them, something they relished after their more unaccustomed battle against an impersonal and uncarrying, but potentially deadly deluge of grain.

A quick cleanup with the local constabulary and they were off, with Milan the next stop. Milan, the best room available in the best and most expensive hotel in the city, a hot shower, clean clothes. Next, an excellent meal, and, as Brett suggested, perhaps ringing up some agreeable ladies they had met on a previous visit. All in all, back to business as usual.

"He does come up with some worthwhile ones, though, you must admit," Brett admitted, brushing off the jacket he intended to wear to dinner. "Oh, I agree, he is far more devious than necessary, and I DO wish he would be more forthcoming with the details beforehand, but still, if we had not interceded in that situation, on the behalf of those two, just what would have been the outcome, Daniel? They would most likely be dead, the Compte and his family would have been bankrupt, a political scandal of the first rank would have dominated the international newpapers. Now, it is a purely local matter, easily and quietly handled by the local authorities. Surely you must agree that we are better suited to dealing with such matters than others might be."

Danny scowled from where he lay across the bed reading the room service menu. He might agree, in theory, but that didn't necessarily mean he WANTED to agree. Finding himself still digging grains of millet out of his ear and other less obvious parts of his body hadn't left him in a mood to be charitable.

He'd watched Sinclair start the lengthy process needed by the finicky man to make an appearance in the hotel dining room below. As for Danny, he still hadn't made up his mind whether he was going down to dinner or not. He figured room service was worth a try - hell, it all came out of the same kitchen - and he really wasn't in the mood to deal with the galloping throngs or the madding crowds or whatever you wanted to call those masses of people off the tourist buses they'd seen checking in downstairs. {"Funny, must be one hell of an upscale tour; this place doesn't usually fit the pocketbook of the average traveling shutterbug."}

Yeah, maybe Room Service and a run on that well-furnished bar in the corner. The one thing he WASN'T in the mood for was arguing with the stubborn man across the room. What he WAS in the mood for doing with that idiot was something far different, but the chances of that were nil. All that was left to him was the arguing, he figured, so he shrugged and got back to it.

"Yeah, so? You wanna be back in his harness, Your Lordship? You LIKE trying for the record for the most freaky way to die? I gotta say, getting smothered by a load of breakfast cereal would probably qualify. Me, I don't feel the need. I never figured on dying in bed of old age when I'm like a hundred, but something a little tamer would do just fine. But I guess you think you gotta have something more exciting, maybe have us go out like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, getting the choice between a ton of bullets or jumping off a cliff. Something real splashy, something for the record books. I mean, what was your best try before this? Having your race car go off the track and burst into flames? Maybe your parachute almost not opening that time? Oh, yeah, I remember now. Almost being eaten alive and sucked dry by a vampire Countess. Hard to top that one, I guess."

Brett put down his hair brush, turned to look at Danny, shock stunning him past words, at least for the moment.

And there it was. That damned five hundred pound canary had landed right in the middle of their hotel room, sat there smirking at them, snickering at them - waiting for the two stubborn men to finally deal with reality, all of it, the whole incredibly complicated mess.

For a few minutes it looked like the canary was going to be disappointed. Sinclair cleared his throat and turned back to the mirror, back to the task of tying his tie. Surely it had to be the influence of that blasted bird, though, that caused his usually nimble fingers to fumble that quick toss, loop, pull through. Danny noticed the mess he was making of something that was basically second-nature to the aristocrat, snickered loudly enough to easily be overheard.

Muttering in frustration, Brett removed the tie, smoothed out the faint creases and started over. He'd just started the toss and loop process for the second time when a huff of amusement from the direction of the bed made him miss once again.

He glared in the direction of his partner, noting for the first time that obviously Daniel was NOT going down to dinner, at least not anytime soon. 

Still clad only in trousers and a shirt left unbuttoned at the cuffs, collar and several front buttons also left undone, the American should have looked relaxed, sprawled there on the bed, but he didn't; somehow he looked incredibly tense. Well, their discussion about the wisdom (or not) of continuing to work for the Judge had NOT been particularly conducive to a relaxed state of mind. Though, certainly, that last interjection, about the Countess, had not done much for Sinclair's frame of mind either.

"Now see what you've done, Daniel! It is not enough for you to look so disheveled, now you've managed to ensure that I'm joining you! That tie is positively ruined," he snapped.

Danny snorted with disdain. "You just don't know how to do it, Your Lordship. Bring it here, I'll handle it. I can handle that, along with every other little problem you've got right now, whatta you wanna bet!"

"You??! I'll have you know I was tying a tie before you knew what one was! Sometime last year, wasn't it?? Why . . ."

That voice was now a growl. "Come here, kid. Sit down," Wilde said, sitting up and patting the space beside him. There was no teasing in those blue eyes, only an intense expression that an incredulous Sinclair recognized as determination strongly enhanced with an outright challenge.

{"Absurd! He's bluffing! HE is challenging ME?? Does he not understand challenging me is futile? I am a Sinclair, Lord Brett Sinclair! A Sinclair does not back away from a challenge. Surely he knows . . ."}

Somehow during that thought process, Brett's feet had decided to take action in spite of what Brett's mind might be thinking, since he now found himself standing by the bed looking down at his sometimes-partner. By the faint look of amusement in those knowing blue eyes, Danny was well aware that movement wasn't a conscious decision on Brett's part.

Clearing his throat once again, Sinclair protested, although wryly aware how weak that protest sounded even to himself. In a lesser person, he would have even been inclined to call it whiny.

"And I cannot SIT DOWN, Daniel! That is a chenille bedspread; can you imagine what that would do to my trousers? It's obvious what it's done to YOURS, after all! I certainly could not go down to the Dining Room covered in lint in addition to wearing a creased tie!"

That scowl Danny had been wearing earlier had shifted to a grin of sheer amusement, though who knows whether that was a response to Brett and his protests, his acknowledgement of the picture they must make, arguing about lint, or maybe it was the mental picture of that huge canary clacking its beak at him and telling him to just 'get on with it, you idiot!'.

"Lint, Your Worship? You're fussing about your tie and lint on your pants? No worries; told you I got the solution to your problems. Ditch the tie, you can stop worrying about the crease. Ditch the pants, you don't have to worry about lint. You feel a little stressed about the lint on MY pants, I'll get rid of them. Dinner? Hey, that's what Room Service is for, right? See? No problem Danny-Boy can't solve for you, Your Dukeship. Easy peasy!"

Well. That certainly covered the lot, Brett thought, as he closed his mouth from where it was hanging open in a most unaccustomed manner. Easy peasy, indeed! Well, that might be easy for HIM to say, but . . .

He watched, wordless, as Danny followed words with action, lifting his hips and quickly shimmying out of his trousers, carelessly tossing them toward the armchair nearby. They slithered to the floor as their owner held up his hands in a 'see how simple that was??!' sort of motion.

Brett stared. "Ahem. Yes, well," and without consciously agreeing, somehow found his fingers at the tab of his own trousers, tie now clutched in such a manner to ensure it would require expert attention if it was ever to be worn again. 

It was typical of Lord Sinclair that, enroute to carefully depositing his garments over the back of that armchair, he had scooped up Danny's pants, laid them across the seat. Perhaps the rest of his behavior tonight might be puzzling, would take considerable thought later, perhaps bring a few regrets. Still, he WAS a Sinclair, and there was no sense in being untidy.

Later, much later, an aristocratic voice asked, "did you mention something about Room Service? I believe I have developed an appetite. Is there a menu, perchance?"

"Yeah, I think I'm laying on it; you can probably read the name of the hotel on my butt. So, what are you in the mood for, Your Lordship? I'm buying, so whatever you want. And for after? I've already got that all planned out. Strawberries and whipped cream, with warm fudge sauce on the side. You're gonna love it! There might even be enough left to actually share a bowlful, later, as dessert. Wouldn't count on it, but anything's possible."

Eventually they would get back to more serious matters, would discuss Judge Fulton, would discuss the Countess. But that would come later. For tonight, they had more important matters to come to an agreement on. At least they would have peace and quiet to do that little thing; seems that canary was off in the corner, taking a nice snooze, content now that those two had finally opened their eyes and at least started to take notice of the reality they were living in.

No, actually, the canary wasn't snoozing, she was preening her feathers in sheer satisfaction. After all, she'd accomplished a great deal recently. Of course, she was hoping Danny would start calling her by her real name pretty soon, stop calling her 'that canary'. 

She whispered softly into the night, "my name is Fate, Danny. You should know my name, you and Brett, because I certainly know YOURS! And I just don't take no for an answer!"


End file.
